Not daring to cross war-torn lands, once Damona’s son Finn had been born and the winter was setting in, Guennec’s troupe returned to Paris. They found basis quarters just inside the city walls and stayed there, enduring hunger and cold but managing to stay alive.
Raoul liked the excitement of the city, despite their poverty, but he wasn’t sorry in the spring, once the roads were passable, when they set off again, still travelling eastwards – to Berthe’s annoyance. She constantly complained – life on the road did not suit her, she said. They all knew that she had taken to whoring in Paris over the winter, not so much from necessity as because she enjoyed it, and she and Pol had constant rows. She was now pregnant, by whom she wasn’t sure, and Pol threatened to desert her. Suffering from nausea and with no means of supporting herself, she was now dependent on them – but this didn’t prevent her from finding fault continuously with everything and everyone.
Damona had lost none of her good looks through having had a child. If anything, Raoul thought, she was lovelier than ever, full of ripe fertility like the Celtic goddess after whom she had been named. Motherhood seemed to have mellowed her spiteful tongue and her little son thrived. She seemed to be content to be faithful to Jean and unlike the other couple, they rarely argued. She still avoided being alone with Raoul but sometimes he was aware that she was watching him though she would hastily look away if he tried to catch her eye.
When they reached Laon, once the capital of France, they stayed for two months. Berthe had miscarried and was sick and fretful, begging Pol’s and God’s forgiveness for her sins. They left their wagon against the city walls and set about entertaining the thronging crowds in any way they could. Raoul’s ‘Squirrel’ act was amazingly popular but they all made good money. Guennec even hired out the oxen to the masons at work on the new cathedral. It was amazing to see the teams of straining beasts dragging the massive blocks of stone up to the top of the steep hill where the builders levered them into place.
When Berthe had regained her strength, they headed for the northern coast. King Louis was at present at the palace of Montreuil, though Queen Eleanor and their children had stayed in Poitiers. Guennec’s Men attached themselves to the court, finding favour with members of the royal household. Predictably Berthe complained when they decided to stay there over the winter, Normandy still being a mass of unrest. But their quarters were dry and food plentiful so Berthe’s protests were ignored. She was somewhat mollified when some of the men-at-arms began to vie for her favours. Pol was infuriated when he caught her in bed with one of them, beating her so severely that she could hardly sit down for a week.
During this time, inevitably, Raoul himself drew attention from various women. He found several of them very attractive – the young, fresh, pretty ones – but he was never seriously tempted to break his vow even though, at times, his celibacy caused him discomfort. He endured it as best he could, frequently being laughed at by Pol, Cof and Jean for his abstemiousness. In the second year they were away, during the May Day festivities, Raoul got very drunk and woke up in a barn to find a half-dressed girl sprawled out next to him. He had no recollection of whether they had done anything or not and she certainly didn’t attract him now, in her state of drunken dishevelment. He simply left a few coins beside her and hurried out to find his friends. They taunted him so continuously about the sin of lechery that he suspected they had taken the girl to him when he was too drunk to notice – and also too drunk to oblige her.
In the spring of 1144, when the King headed towards the Loire, they travelled with his entourage. Damona had given birth with some difficulty to an underweight baby girl, and neither of them was very strong. Guennec had decided that they could work their way round to the south, reaching Brittany without crossing Normandy at all. After so long they were all keen to head for Sarzeau again.
“I suggest we stop off at the Baron of Montglane’s castle near Chinon,” Daniel said. “Your devoted fidelity to his wife has been quite remarkable, Raoul.”
Raoul grinned. It didn’t seem very likely that Félice would remember him after all this time. If she did it would put his vow of chastity to its sternest test so far.
As it happened, she remembered him well and consequently gave Guennec’s troupe snug quarters in her castle. There was no threat to Raoul’s vow, however, as Félice was due to give birth to her third child at any moment.
She summoned him up to her solar where she reclined on a day-bed. She wore only her shift and a light robe and her golden hair was uncovered and unbraided. Above her hugely rounded belly, her swollen breasts strained at the thin fabric which covered them. Raoul had difficulty in taking his eyes away.
“You must come back in the spring,” she said with a languorous smile. “Hubert generally goes off on an extended hunting trip and I’d be able to look after you properly.”
Raoul kissed her hand and assured her, mendaciously, that he would certainly return. He knew that he wouldn’t dare. Even at this late stage of pregnancy, he found her extraordinarily alluring. He found himself examining her manservants, all of whom seemed to be young and handsome, wondering whether only some or all of them had been her lovers. She read his thought and chuckled.
“You mustn’t be jealous, my dear,” she said. “After all, my elder son has dark hair and green eyes very like a former lover of mine.”
An exclamation of amazed delight rose to Raoul’s lips.
“Shh, say nothing.” She sat up and put her fingers against his lips. “Just return to me in the spring and who knows, perhaps in the future Etienne will have a little brother or sister who resembles him. That would be nice for my husband, wouldn’t it?”
As it turned out, despite this new temptation to go back to Montglane the following year, it was not to be.
Guennec’s troupe spent a quiet and uneventful winter in Sarzeau after the inevitably major repairs to the barn and the cottage. Mathieu Bizien had been ill and his son had taken over from him as miller. Celie Cloarec had died in childbirth and her little brother had died of an ague the previous spring. Bertrand de Courcy spent all of his time in the north, in Tréguier, and people said he was escaping out from under his mother’s thumb for the first time in his life. In his absence there was no danger for Raoul in going to perform at Morbihan castle.
Early in the spring, a mendicant friar brought alarming news of a pestilence which was raging in the east. Rumours spread round the village with reports of the numbers dying becoming more and more exaggerated. Children were especially vulnerable, it was said.
Guennec’s family and friends gathered round the fire in his cottage to discuss the matter.
“What should we do?” Maeve said to Daniel, her worried eyes flicking from baby Anne, sleeping in her basket in the corner to three year old Finn who was pestering his Uncle Connell with demands to “go fly Gwen”.
“I don’t want to spend the whole year here,” said Jean. “I don’t enjoy land-work and that’s all there is.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Berthe said. “The Count will let me help in the castle kitchens.”
“That settles it,” Pol snarled. “We’ve got to get away.”
At length it was agreed that they could travel, but just within Brittany.
“We won’t earn much money,” Daniel said, “but it’ll feed us and may keep us safe.”
A few days later they left Sarzeau, Pol and Berthe arguing furiously about where they should go. They wound their way slowly northwards, round the coast, occasionally striking inland towards a larger town but always checking for word of the plague before they entered it. Mostly they played for isolated castles or small fishing communities who, unaccustomed to being entertained by minstrels, made them touchingly welcome.
In August 1145, shortly before Raoul’s twenty-first birthday, they arrived in a small fortified town in the north-west of the Duchy.
“Do you know where we are, Raoul?” Daniel asked him as they unharnessed the oxen.
“I’m not sure.
Is this still Cornouaille or have we left that area now?”
“We’re in Léon and this town is called Locronan. But that’s not what I meant. Take a look at the crest on the gate.”
Raoul’s heart began to race. He knew that device – it was on his father’s sword – and Daniel had recognised it too. They were in Radenoc and tomorrow they would reach the castle.
Chapter Thirteen
It was hard for Raoul to sleep that night. They had sung and played in a small tavern, receiving a little food in payment, but they were offered no shelter. Raoul dozed a little at first but when he awoke it was still fully dark. Under the cart, Raoul, Cof and Connell lay close together. Cof was snoring and Connell muttered in his sleep. From the other wagon he could hear baby Anne’s thin wailing cry. He wished that he could fetch Gwen, but the bird, on her perch inside Guennec’s wagon, would be alarmed and irritable at being disturbed.
Lying there awake was becoming unbearable so Raoul quietly crept out into the open, wrapped in his blanket. The fire still glowed faintly so he squatted down by it, prodding the embers with a stick. The night was clear but cool, despite the season.
It was hard to believe that in a few hours he would be going to the castle of Radenoc. It and all the land around should by rights be his! It seemed extraordinary – quite unreal. Tomorrow he would see his infamous great uncle. Could anyone truly be as evil as Anne Le Hir and his grandmother had claimed? It seemed hard to credit. Was it Raoul’s duty to kill Armand if he could? He supposed so. But how could that be managed in any way that would actually acquire the barony for himself? All that would happen would be that he would be imprisoned, then executed, thus fulfilling Meg’s prophecy in the worst possible way. When Armand was dead the barony would descend to his oldest son, whoever he might be, just as if he’d never tried to intervene. It was hopeless.
What he must certainly do while he was in the castle was to see the impregnable West Tower and, if at all possible, the chamber in which his grandfather had been killed. Lady Eleanor claimed that someone had found their way secretly into the chamber, someone who had suffocated Henri, her husband and Radenoc’s last rightful baron. She had told Raoul that the murderer was Armand. He, Raoul, must see whether there was any way that it could have been true. No-one had believed Eleanor’s claim, using her pregnancy as an excuse – it had been a dream; she had imagined it! Henri had been weakened, it was said, by his slow recovery from a serious wound. That was the popular explanation of his sudden death.
“Raoul?”
He looked round. Damona was standing a few feet away, shivering, dressed only in her shift.
“Come here to the fire. Wrap this blanket round you – you’re cold.”
As he placed the rug round her shoulders he was acutely aware of her body. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric, could see the tops of her breasts, and the outline of her erect nipples. A wave of desire rushed through him and he had a sudden impulse to touch her, to hold her. He forced himself to step away and return to the fire.
“Is Anne all right? I heard her crying.”
Damona sat down beside him, too close for Raoul’s comfort.
“Yes, she was a bit fretful. I fed her again and she went back to sleep. What about you? Is something wrong?”
“No. I was just restless, that’s all. I hate lying listening to others sleep when I can’t.”
“I know. Jean’s snoring his head off. And the others are as bad. Do you know Berthe even moans in her sleep? I think she’s the most miserable being ever created!”
Raoul laughed.
“Truly! If she was in Heaven she’d find something to complain about!”
“And what about you? Are you happy?”
It was the first time they had been really alone together in years. It might be the last for many more. Raoul couldn’t resist the temptation to ask at least one of the questions which he’d thought about so often.
Damona didn’t seem to be prepared to take him seriously. She laughed lightly.
“Well, of course. I’ve a good man and two healthy children. What more could I ask for?”
“Love?”
“Oh, come on. Let’s be realistic. The Garden of Love is for ladies in romances not for peasants like me!” There was a bitterness behind her flippant tone.
“Passion, then.”
“Passion? Well, that’s something else, isn’t it?”
Her dark eyes locked with his. Her breathing was rapid. Infinitely slowly, almost imperceptibly she moved closer. Raoul’s heart hammered in his chest and his throat went dry. What was she doing? She had been Jean’s wife for years, had ignored Raoul all this time. But now...With a hand that trembled pitifully, he reached out and touched her hair; it felt soft and silky. Then he drew her gently towards him. In just a moment their lips would meet. He felt almost overwhelmed by the powerful emotions that swept through him.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she murmured, her face inches from his.
“What?”
“You had your chance with me years ago and missed it. You turned me down, remember?”
“Damona, please...I don’t...”
“Good night Raoul. Sweet dreams!”
With a derisive laugh she sprang to her feet and began to walk away then stopped abruptly.
Had she changed her mind?
“Your blanket, Raoul.”
She flung it to him and he buried his face in it, her warmth and fragrance clinging to the cloth. He groaned in an agony of frustration. How could she torment him like this? He was almost tempted to find a local girl to give him temporary relief. But everyone in Locronan was asleep, even the whores. And he must not forget his vow. He went back to the wagon and crawled miserably back into his place, thoughts of Radenoc temporarily forgotten.
The next morning a fine mizzling rain had set in. It put a damper on everyone’s mood. They packed up their belongings in virtual silence, stamped out the fire and set off towards the castle. Raoul caught Damona watching him from the back of the smaller wagon as they left the village. Luckily, these days, he could conceal feelings of embarrassment better than he had when he was younger. He was both hurt and angered by what she had done.
But as they drew nearer to the coast, he forgot about Damona. Despite the misty drizzle, the further they went, the more he felt as if he almost knew what would be round each bend in the road. Anne Le Hir had spent hours talking to him about it all, had even talked about this sort of weather: “It’s as if the sky is lower,” she had said.
They passed an immensely tall pointed standing stone, quite alone, unlike those in the south. It was called the Menhir de Kerloas, he recalled. Anne had had an extraordinary story about newly-weds assuring their fertility by rubbing themselves on the bumps which protruded from the stone at an appropriate height! He certainly wasn’t likely to have forgotten than piece of curious lore.
There were few trees except in sheltered hollows and the crops, now almost ready for harvesting, were oats and barley. Quite soon, in the distance, smoke rising and the desultory barking of dogs told them that a village was nearby. It would be Kerhouazoc, where Anne had been born and had lived most of her life until she had chosen to come to Normandy with Eleanor. As she had said, it was a small, mean place, the houses ill-kempt and huddled together as if for mutual protection. Under Raoul’s grandmother’s kindly rule a little prosperity had come to the community but that could not be expected to have lasted under Armand.
‘I’ll change things if ever I get the chance,’ Raoul thought fiercely.
As they usually did, the mummers had struck up a cheerful melody as they reached the first houses, trying to encourage the residents to come out and greet them. One or two women stuck furtive heads out of their doors and a few thin ragged children appeared. No-one made any move to welcome them or to offer them money or food. Raoul felt almost that they were the ones who should be offering largesse to the villagers.
“We’ll carry straight on
to Radenoc, I think,” Daniel called. “The folk here don’t seem too friendly.”
Further on, the track led downhill and beyond the headland there were glimpses of the sea. Somewhere over there was Melgorn, the island where the old gods had still been worshipped as little as thirty years ago. It was an evil place, Anne had said, but she hadn’t explained why. Perhaps half a mile from Kerhouazoc, they crossed a shallow stream which led down to a small inlet. There too there were houses, lining the shore. Outside, despite the rain, were several women, busily occupied, laughing and talking.
“It’s a fishing community called Lanhalles,” Raoul told Daniel. “I believe that they’ve always been very independent – never followed the rule of the castle. I think sometimes they were punished for it. My grandmother had a friend here but I can’t remember his name.”
“Do you reckon they’d like a few songs?”
“Bound to, I’d say.”
Singing and playing, they turned the wagons down the hill towards the hamlet. As Raoul had thought, the people there – mainly women and children at this time of day – were very different from the residents of Kerhouazoc. Bread, cheese and ale were produced from several cottages and everyone joined in with the ballads they sang. Raoul found himself wondering if some of the older women had known his grandmother. The fisherman who had sailed her to Normandy had gone to live in the outer islands when she’d gone, afraid of retribution from Armand. What had his name been? He’d been Radenoc’s steward once, apparently. Tanguy Rivoallon. That was it.
The low mist was breaking up now, torn apart by a fresh westerly breeze. Some way off shore the humped shape of an island could be distinguished.
“Is that the place they call Melgorn?” Raoul asked a woman near him.
To his surprise, she crossed herself.
The Rightful Heir Page 20